


Serenade

by Tim (boywonder)



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-22
Updated: 2011-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-14 23:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boywonder/pseuds/Tim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the help_haiti thing on livejournal.<br/>The request had to do with Holmes playing the violin at all hours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Serenade

Despite Watson's insistence on the matter, Holmes hadn't _started_ playing the violin at three in the morning simply to be a nuisance. He found that it was easiest to think when there was hardly another soul awake. He hadn't much considered that the violin would wake someone else up; in fact, he much thought that the opposite was true. He was certainly not an inexperienced violin player, and if he so wished, he could serenade the Queen herself to sleep.

True, he did not often play quiet serenades in the middle of the night, but that was neither here nor there.

As he had once told Watson, at _least_ he had the decency to play in the study, instead of in the bedroom. He had conceded _that_ much, at least, so _surely_ Watson could see that he wasn't simply being difficult.

One night in particular, he was working on a particularly vexing case, and the violin music grew louder and more frantic as his mind became more detached from the actual goings-on in the room.

Watson, unable to actually sleep once the notes became more dissonant and the melody more erratic, stormed into the study without ever bothering to knock.

" _Must_ you do this now?" he said, seething through an ever-present air of politeness.

Holmes snapped out of his trance-like state and paused, bow still hovering on the strings as if he might start up his insane tirade of notes at a moment's notice.

"There is no time like the present, my dear Watson," he said, his tone as flippant as ever.

Watson's brows knitted together, and he sighed. "Can't you play something that actually _has_ a melody, instead of this madness you insist on calling music?"

The hand holding the bow twitched, but the strings never made a sound. "Music is a fickle thing, you know. Certainly, even you and I cannot agree on every type of music."

"Then find something we _can_ agree on, won't you?" Watson said, frustrated. He wasn't honestly expecting much of his disagreeable partner on this subject, but he had an appointment with a patient early the next morning, and preferred not to meet them looking anything less than healthy himself.

"What would you prefer, then?" Holmes asked. His tone was more than a little patronizing, but this was Holmes at his most amiable. Perhaps he had found the revelation he sought in his wild madness of sound, or perhaps he had some other motive. Watson couldn't say, but he was certainly not about to turn down an offer. As fickle as Holmes claimed music was, the man himself was far worse.

"What is that Mendelssohn piece that you played, not long ago...ah, yes. Concerto, E minor. Why don't you play _that_ one." It wasn't Watson's favorite piece, but it was something he knew Holmes rather enjoyed, and it was better than the cacophony that had been coming out of that damned violin moments before.

Holmes thought on this for a moment, then closed his eyes and pulled the bow back across the strings. The notes swelled into the air around them, and Watson settled in an empty chair across from the detective.

"You know, Watson," Holmes said, speaking at points he found to be appropriate, "I dare say that there ought be some reciprocation for my acquiescence on this matter."

Watson shook his head, well aware that Holmes was not looking at him at all. It was rather predictable of Holmes, in the end; the man was difficult at the best of times, and uncompromising at _most_ times.

"Provided you don't descend back into madness, I suppose I can come up with _some_ form of thanks."

Holmes nodded, his head bobbing in time with the music, and continued playing. Watson looked up and noticed the smile playing on the detective's lips - perhaps, in his own way, it was a promise of things to come.

Watson found himself smiling, too, as he closed his eyes and listen to the music unfold around them. Holmes was a master when he wished to be, and apparently, tonight he was determined to impress.

Perhaps the idea of repaying him for such _acquiescence_ wasn't such a bad idea, after all.

As the piece neared its end, Watson sighed to himself and began unbuttoning his shirt.


End file.
